You'll know in the morning
by Isolith
Summary: drinks prompt from RaydorFlynn comm on livejournal. The team celebrates at a bar, one thing leads to another.


**You'll know in the morning**

_Summary:_ drinks prompt from RaydorFlynn comm on livejournal. The team celebrates at a bar, one thing leads to another. Andy/Sharon.

_A/N:_ This sorta had a mind of its own. =)

**/**

There's something about drunken sex Andy finds himself contemplating and missing all of a sudden. He can't quite put his finger on it, can't quite narrow it down or explain why he suddenly submerges in this line of thought. It an intense scenario however, one that assaults him.

However sloppy and awkward it can be, he mostly focuses on the connection when there are no inhibitions, when there's nothing to hinder. The blur of colors, so vivid – the smell, the touch; it's all somehow drenched in a wildness when you're drunk.

Andy sighs; just a small unnoticeable outlet of air, his eyes fastens on what has held his attention throughout the night.

Sharon's drunk; red blotches on her cheeks and her voice even lower and throatier than usual.

Everyone is drunk to a certain degree, he reflects, looking around the table they have commandeered for their celebration.

Andy does not mind; it's something that has cultured in him, something he has used too much time and energy on to let it bother him. He does not mind other people enjoying their alcohol, he does not mind spending time with them; mostly it never bothers him.

She has never figured into this equation, though. She brushes an errant strand of red hair back behind her ear, her eyes on Provenza, her lips parts in an amused smile. Andy watches her other hand slide down her thighs, straightening out her dress from where it has ridden up. Her pale skin looks welcoming in this light, he thinks. Her eyes inviting in their hue. The turn of her nose, the tilt to her chin. The small little ear that usually hides behind the thick mane of hers.

Andy's nursing his cranberry juice and Provenza's emptying his beer. Sanchez looks halfway bored, cradling a glass of dark beer, seated next to Buzz and Mike who looks to be deep in conversation not meant for outsiders. Sykes has sauntered up to the bar for provisions, flirting with one of the bartenders as she almost hangs onto the bar, head in her hands.

Provenza's boisterous and loud like usual once he gets enough to drink, a pink shine to his skin as well and his mouth drawn into a permanent smile. Andy smiles to himself, he knows his partner and he's familiar with that glint in the depths of his eyes; Provenza's going to entertain every one of them with an awful tale or two. One of those tales where you don't know whether to laugh or to cry.

Andy laughs along with Sharon even if he's heard every little nuance to the story before. Her laughter seems uninhibited and sweet and he follows along, enjoying the shared look that passes between them, Provenza continuing to grumble good-naturedly about his old partner George.

She's drinking wine, a rich red cabernet and he watches as her lips gets slightly stained throughout the evening. From a certain angle and in the low light of the bar her red lipstick almost shines like blood, he reflects. It settles under his skin in a tingle.

He imagines her mouth would taste like wine as well.

And salt, he adds watching her nibble on salted peanuts.

Sykes is back at their table, a tray balancing in her hands and a drink for everyone, a wide smile when she sets another cranberry juice in front of Andy. He smiles back in return, watching her settle in next to Sanchez again, the two of them clinking their glasses and shaking their heads at Buzz and Mike.

"This one time, George and me," Provenza's voice rumbles as he starts another escapade-story, not noticing Sharon snorting into her wine at the mention of George yet again.

Andy leans over to whisper in her ear, "You should have seen his face when George came back from retirement as a woman. Nearly had a heart attack, I tell you."

She leans into him as well, her voice with a timbre of restrained laughter, "I nearly had a heart attack myself when I heard. You have no idea how many times I had to put up with George Andrews being a misogynistic pig."

"I can imagine," he whispers back.

"Hey, are you even listening, you two," Provenza barks.

She sits up straight again, her eyes on Provenza but she's still closer than before. Andy enjoys the warmth of her shoulder next to his, his own eyes on his partner as he listens to the ridiculous story of the reptile-fanatic drug-dealer that's been told to death.

Later, after another round of drinks, everyone is most definitely drunk.

Sharon follows Provenza to the bar, their arms linked and not too steady on their feet. They are laughing and joking about something, her tone carrying and just behind Provenza's gruffer voice. Andy knows it's only for show; his partner has grown very fond of the Captain.

Mike has a faint blush across his nose and cheeks, even his ears had turned a slight pink. He's talking fast, his voice turning into a techno stream – Buzz nods and seems to understand, his hands occupied by twirling the little umbrella in his colorful drink, eyes almost glazed. Sykes is talking with Sanchez in a low voice, too low for Andy to ferret out what they're saying.

Instead he watches Sharon at the bar, the way she pokes Provenza in the ribcage and how his partner blushes with feigned indignation until his smile rats him out. They seem to be bickering about what they want, the bartender's eyes flickering between them with a certain bemused aloofness.

They have gone out to celebrate many times before as a team, so it's not that Andy does not understand how to embrace the situation. Too many in their line of work drink and too many in his circle of friends drink as well; he's learned early on he would never be able to avoid alcohol completely. It does not bother him and it's a seldom occurrence for him to be tempted in this situation.

He does not feel tempted tonight, it's not that. It's something else, something different. Maybe it's the shared camaraderie that comes when you drink with others, but no, Andy can joke and share with the others even if he's sober. It's not that barrier.

It's the thought of her, uninhibited and smiling, sharing laughter and looking at him with something in the depths of her eyes. It's a look that without a doubt invites a lot of trouble.

It the reason he's contemplating why he misses drunken sex. If this had been twenty years ago his hand would be on her thigh, he would sit even closer than now and whisper things in her ear that would be far from innocent. He would have dared plant his fingers on bare skin, trace his fingers in a caress on an inner thigh; it would happen without second thought. Twenty years ago and he would know what to do and how it would end. Now he feels giddy and yet anxious, caught in a strange daze of not knowing what to do, not knowing what he wants or what to expect.

Sharon laughs and he watches as her and Provenza quickly drown a shot glass up at the bar. Andy suspects Provenza's trying to drink her under the table. Something is going on; the two of them goading each other on, Sanchez not far behind with a wicked gleam in his eyes and Sykes looking ready to drink them all under with a cheeky smile. Mike and Buzz still focused on something to do with cameras or technology of some kind.

The bartender follows Sharon and Provenza back to their table, a tray with drinks in his hand. Andy thinks it's a wise decision seeing both Sharon and Provenza would have dropped the tray upon contact, neither of them seeming to be in much control of their limbs.

She sits down next to him again, close enough for him to immediately notice the difference in warmth. She even places his new cranberry tumbler in front of him, her smile deep and her teeth white. Her eyes warm and soft, gleaming.

Andy nudges his shoulder against hers, they clink glasses – Provenza's starting one of his stories from his rookie days, one that does not feature George. They've all heard it before; Sharon hasn't. Her eyes are on Provenza as the story continues but suddenly she shifts, coming closer and her hand lands on a spot just above his knee.

Andy smiles to himself; another little thing that tells him she's drunk and not merely tipsy.

**/**

"Stop being so goddamn obvious," Provenza takes him aside outside the toilets.

"Huh?"

Provenza drawls, "You've been staring at her all night. C'mon, I'm not a complete idiot. It's plain for everyone with eyes in their faces to see. You've been staring at her exclusively in the last year, pal, and tonight's no exception."

Andy fumbles for a reply, not sure what to do in this situation. This is really the last thing he expects Provenza to annoy him with. "What do you mean?" his voice sounds high and squeaky, "I don't stare at her." It's no use to pretend not to know who Provenza's referring to; that would only make it that more obvious.

Provenza sighs in a dramatic fashion, his hand now on Andy's sleeve as he tugs both of them into a corner, away from the doorway into the bar.

"Listen," his partner starts, his voice sounding odd, a mix between drunk and genuine, "It's no big secret, we all know how you feel about her."

Andy immediately feels upset, his neck uncomfortably warm at this revelation. How is he supposed to react to this? It's something only meant for him to acknowledge and not for others to know. He chastises himself; of course Provenza would know what is going on inside of him, really it had been idiotic to presume otherwise.

"I don't know what you mean, old man. I think you've been doing one too many tequila shots, huh."

Provenza rolls his eyes, "Oh please, spare me your feeble excuses."

"You're shitfaced."

"Make a move, you idiot."

"You're mental."

"Oh, grow some balls, Flynn – she's been touching you all night, making lovey-dovey eyes at you; and what do you do? Huh?" he pauses, shakes his head, "Absolutely nothing. I tell you, either you do something about it or you stop staring at her. It's making me nauseous having to look at your miserable face, day after day."

His mouth feels dry and it's hard to swallow let alone think straight.

"She's drunk," he protests, knowing it's no good to pretend he's not been staring at her like a lovesick fool for the last year; apparently it's been obvious for everyone.

Provenza shrugs, "Take her home, undress her and you know the rest."

"I'm not about to do that, goddamn."

"You're a bigger fool than I thought then."

Andy sighs, and wonders what has gotten into Provenza. Tequila is really as awful as he remembers, Andy thinks, otherwise his partner would not be this troublesome.

Provenza barges ahead again, "C'mon, haven't you seen the looks she's giving you? Does it need spelling out?"

"What looks?" his voice sounds dubious.

Provenza looks skyward, his voice a disparaging note, "What was that little knee-touching thing then? Huh?"

"She's my superior," it seems a vague excuse on afterthought.

"Flynn, will you please for everyone's sake try to act like yourself! God, you're lovesick and your brain has turned to mush."

"Why do you care?" his voice is harsh now, defensive.

"You're my friend – she's my friend, sorta. I'm not heartless, you know."

"Could've fooled me," he retorts.

Provenza suddenly smiles with a wicked gleam. Andy knows it does not bode well for him, "If you don't make a move, buddy, someone else will."

Provenza is trying to goad him, it should not work but somehow the notion of her with anyone else, even if it's merely a jest, it's almost insidious to him.

"Aha," Provenza proclaims, "Now there's the rub. Just admit it, you're hopelessly in love."

"Whatever. Nothing you say will change the fact that she's my superior or that she's too drunk to be rational."

"You're an idiot, Flynn."

"Right back at you, old man."

"Listen, Flynn. The two of you are too close to retirement to let it hinder you. It won't mean a hoot either way. Open your eyes, she doesn't care."

"Bullshit, of course she cares. It's a breach of conduct. It's Sharon Raydor we're talking about! Or have you forgotten," his voice turns up a volume, his hands balled into fists.

"You're too chivalrous, buddy. It won't do you no good."

"And you're a lecherous old man. Shit. What do you want me to do? Huh, just go in there and sweep her off her feet, really! It's absurd."

Provenza rolls his eyes, "Now that would work."

**/**

Later on it's a certain look she directs his way that prompts him to make sure she gets home safely despite promising himself he would do no such thing. Vivid green eyes centered on him that makes his hand linger on the back of her spine, directing her to his car even if he promised himself he would not touch her however innocent it might seem. He pretends to ignore the words of his partner; tries to pretend they never had that disastrous conversation.

Green eyes and a coy smile, and he makes sure to follow her inside her apartment complex even though it's the break of another promise.

Her drunkenness seems to have transferred onto him in a form of giddiness.

She fiddles with his tie, her back to her own front door, dark lashes obscuring her eyes.

He should reject it. He can't help but feel slightly guilty. He's the one that's sober and he should discourage her.

"You're thinking so loud I can hear the wheels turning in your head," her breath is warm, her eyes even more so.

One of his thumbs lingers on her chin, tentatively, "You're drunk."

She smiles in reply, genuinely.

"You're going to be embarrassed tomorrow," he elaborates, choosing not to explain that he would loathe being a mistake in her life.

She laughs, "Unless this is what I planned all along."

He corks an eyebrow, "I doubt that."

"Andy, you really don't know me then," she smiles.

He shakes his head, a little amazed at her openness.

"You can only be this forward when you're drunk?"

"I was nervous," she confides.

"Why?"

"You've been looking at me all night."

He smiles nervously.

"I needed a little reassurance, and well – Provenza needed someone to do shots with him."

She leans up and bestows him with a brief kiss, "I'm all for solidarity."

"Mm, solidarity," he mumbles into her lips, still unsure about this even if his voice is mirthful.

She's been chewing gum, he thinks, not able to detect the smallest linger of alcohol on her lips. Somehow it soothes him, the fact that she's been considerate and coherent enough to understand him.

His hands land around her waist, the warmth around her clothed skin almost too much.

She giggles against his lips, the vibration of her voice tingling on his skin.

He smiles but soon she kisses him again, this time lingering in it, her hands around his own hips and bringing him closer. Hesitantly he follows, not sure he should be doing this. He would hate for her to regret it when she's wakes up sober, only because he's known his own share of regrets in the morning after.

"Relax," she whispers in-between two kisses, fingers now in the back of his hair, "I don't bite… much."

He laughs against her lips, their hips meet and he presses her into the door, the little tone high in her throat sounding excited.

Drunken sex without being drunk; he's not sure what to feel about it but somehow he thinks it won't be as disastrous as his worries will have it.

Her door opens behind her and he directs them inside, quickly closing the door, turning them around and once again he has her pressed into the door, only now on the inside.

She sighs when he lets up for air, her eyes closed.

"God, I'm drunk," she whispers and he chuckles at her, "everything's spinning."

"Me too?" he asks.

She nods.

He traces a finger along her jaw, unable to not let his eyes rest on her face. She's beautiful, a faint blush adorning her cheeks, her lipstick half gone from her lips. When she opens her eyes they are centered on him, vivid green, questioning.

"Do you want me to tug you in," he asks her, not sure if he means it to be genuine or teasing.

She smiles, "Would you?"

He nods, the hands around her hips feeling almost sweaty at the prospect.

She slips a hand into his, locks the front door and slips off her shoes before she tugs him in the direction of her bedroom.

He's been to her apartment a couple of times so the place is sort of familiar, dark now and only the streetlights from outside shining through flimsy curtains. But he's never seen her bedroom and he has to admit he's curious. She opens a door, turns on a small light and he looks around the big, open room in soothing colors, the wide bed and the even wider window.

Frankly he does not notice much more for she turns and once again her lips are on his, her hands somehow starting to unbutton his shirt, his jacket already on the floor. Before he can comprehend any of it her hands are on his skin, around his hips and on his bare spine, lips still intertwined.

He lingers on the zipper in the back of her dress, drawing it halfway down her back before he becomes too consumed by her lips, only zipping it all the way down when she mumbles against his lips. The dress is quickly a pool around her ankles and his palms are against her bare skin, sliding over shoulders, sliding down her spine, around hips and up towards her ribcage under her bra.

His pants pool around his own legs and they both step out of the clothes on the floor, bodies close and arms tangled, deviating toward the bed.

She snuggles into him on the bed, her fingers lazily on the side of his stomach, her nose buried into the crook of his neck. He breathes in her hair, the scent faint but distinctly hers, his fingers buries in the tresses.

He pulls the bed sheet over them, smiles when he hears her sigh contently.

"You're warm," she mumbles and he slides his lips over her temple, one hand going down her spine bringing her closer to him.

"You're hot," he answers, his lips curling when she sleepily laughs.

**/**

She's curls around him in her sleep, the morning light having slowly invaded the room. He's wide awake, staring into her ceiling, trying not to smile like an idiot. The small rise and fall of her chest soothes against his own chest, the small little tickle of breath that hits his neck is warming. Her thigh over his, leg between his; it's more intimate than he had imagined.

He does not mind that they did nothing but snuggle last night. If anything this seems better than having sex, he reckons.

"You're thinking," she yawns into his skin, her lips tickling.

He chuckles, "Morning sunshine."

He can feel her smile against his neck, feel the warmth in the hand on his hip pressing into his skin with more force, the resettling of her legs, digging deeper against his.

"You already awake? No headache?" he asks, curious.

She yawns again, "My head's fine and I'll be wide awake before you know it."

He grins again, "That right?"

"Oh yes, you better watch it," her hips press against his side.

"You always this cheeky in the mornings? Or are you still drunk from yesterday?"

She laughs, "I'm sober, if that's what you're fishing for."

His fingers trace lower on her back, "I'm not fishing. Not yet."

"Andy?"

"Yes," he wonders at the sudden serious tone, he tilts his head and catches her looking up at him, her eyes even greener than last night.

"You're wearing too much clothes," her eyes twinkle, fingers on the band of his underwear.

"So are you," and his hand is already under her panties, driving the material down.

She grins, leans up and catches his lips, lips warm and eager.

"Good morning," she whimpers when he flips them around and lands on top, pressing her heavily into the mattress.

"It will be," he agrees.

**/**


End file.
